


What I Wish I Said

by arlenejp



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Coming to a conclusion, John is embarassed, M/M, Photographs, Photoshop, inferring, intimate photos, time to reveal a truth
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-07
Updated: 2020-10-07
Packaged: 2021-03-07 22:19:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,503
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26634991
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/arlenejp/pseuds/arlenejp
Summary: A series of photos has Dr. Watson embarrassed. But time to tell the truth.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 29
Kudos: 21





	What I Wish I Said

**Author's Note:**

> silly fluff. written for a prompt

Time has a way of making things look better, they say. First of all, I don’t understand who they are. And second of all, if someone did say that, then why isn’t it working now?  
No, it isn’t working at all. And it’s been two years. Two long, self-hating years. Punishing years.  
I try to avoid all the old friends. Avoid their long ‘feel sorry for you’ expressions.  
And the trying to be upbeat ‘can I fix you up with a collegiate or friend’ thingy.  
Instead, you dumb oaf you persist in wallowing, rehashing, rethinking of what could have been if only, if you had instead, if you had gotten the courage up.  
But now you sit in your dumpy, cushioned chair, shoes off, tea on the little table, book on your lap, and repeat those events over and over again in your little brain.  
Did I not see it coming? Why did I not understand that those unkind words he uttered meant to throw me off? To distract me from the actual happenings of that moment!  
If I had not let the one emotion take over and played the game his way, what would have been?  
What if I had, back at the beginning of our mutual friend’s introduction, not thrown caution out the window?  
My heart’s irregular beating surfaced upon hearing the deep rumble of your voice, and I knew you were a danger to be near.  
The curiosity you evoked that drove me to research you and then visit the flat should have had me running in the opposite direction.  
But there you were, and the string that began to tie us together wove it’s way around us those first exciting days with you.  
I’m determined that today--maybe tonight I’ll finally open my mouth and spit out the words.  
I’ve emerged from the bathroom, toweling my hair dry, my robe secured with a good knot, when I hear the familiar sound from the kitchen.  
You haven’t?  
But there you stand, in your black trousers and white shirt, barefoot, the tea kettle whistling merrily.  
“You made tea?”  
“What’s so incredulous about me brewing the tea? It’s child play,” taking the pot off the stovetop and setting it on the potholder on the table.  
Even more startling is the two cups, sugar bowl, two spoons, and a plate holding croissants placed on the table.  
“Okay, what have you done?” my suspicion overriding any faint delight I initially felt at this domestic scene.  
“Skepticism. Always that, isn’t it? You had a good night’s sleep. What is so unusual about my showing my appreciation to my flatmate.”  
“Because,” the towel draped over my chair, making sure the wet is not against my back, I sit,” because, you idiot, you never show gratitude unless you are looking for something. So,” the tea is poured, and raising the cup to signal he’s talking to him, “what do you want this time?”  
If it were anyone else, they would not notice the slight upturn of his lips, his way of smirking.  
“We have an appointment with my brother--.”  
Interrupting him,” wait, wait. An appointment with him? Since when do we have a choice. He usually barges in on us or drags us away in that ridiculous black car of his. If it’s his car at all.”  
A door bangs and someone is walking up the stairs.  
Without turning to see who it is, my partner sets his teacup on the table hard enough to make the liquid slosh out.  
With a sigh, a voice laced with disdain. “I thought we had an appointment. What in hell are you doing here?”  
Trying to control my temper, I ask,” would you like a cup of tea? It’s still warm.”  
“I had to drive nearby, and it simply was easier to drop this off,” holding out a yellow manila bag in two fingers as if it is contaminated.  
He takes the necessary steps forward, and when his younger brother does not acknowledge him, I puff out my exasperation and reach for the item.  
Taking the packet from his gloved fingers, I’m surprised at its weight. My eyebrows raise, and I have to question what it contains.  
My mouth opens, but nothing emerges because I’m interrupted.  
“Let me guess. It’s the pictures and documents from the Whitestone massacre,” my flatmate finally puts in his two cents, but its with disdain.  
“Received it last night from the Inspector Detective.”  
Cocking my head, impressed that he would step out to pick up anything, “when did you go out?”  
“Do you think I would venture out in that downpour last night? No, it was hand-delivered.”  
“John, my brother would sooner--.”  
“Stop it now, Sherlock. You’re only trying to pick a fight when none is needed.”  
“With him? Pick a fight?”  
“If you two will continue your little squabble after I leave?” older brother cuts in, his voice weary.  
“What squabble are you vocalizing about? We are conversing. Now leave,” pushing his chair away as he stands. Ignoring his elder brother, he sweeps the envelope out of my hand and plops onto his black leather chair.  
Sweeping the magazine and the remote for the television off onto the floor, he again reiterates,” leave, Mycroft.”  
With one hand, he tears the bag open while the other whisks at the air, dismissing the man whos already out the door.  
Sherlock dumps all the material onto the table and stares at it, hands steepled beneath his chin.  
“John,” never taking his eyes off the disarray in front of him, “come look at this,” and gingerly picks out one photograph.  
I feel the heat rise to my cheeks, my stomach does a twist, wishing I was anywhere else but here.  
“This is an obvious photoshop. But why?”  
“I--well--I did it?”  
We’re sitting on the couch, leaning into one another, seemingly kissing.  
“Blackmail it is, John Watson,” waving a paper in his hand, the tone of his voice menacing.  
Time to come clean. Time to voice what I have had in my head for years.  
“I--well,--it has been a fantasy of mine,” my head tucked as far down into my chest as possible.  
“A fantasy?” an octave higher than before, “and this, and this, ad infinitum?”  
Picking up and dropping more photos on the floor.  
Sherlock in his robe, I wrapped in a towel next to him, looking up as if entranced. And dozens more.  
All intimate and all photoshopped.  
“Explain yourself, John Watson,” now calm, no low with a touch of tenderness.  
I’m afraid to look up, but our closeness is disarming in the context of what he’s learned about me.  
Wringing my sweaty hands, I stutter, “it’s been like--well, I found--and then I couldn’t--.”  
“Oh,” he breaks my line of thought, actually non thought.  
There’s a quiet in the flat that is stifling. Neither of us willing to move, to talk, to do anything but sit.  
Say it. So ahead. Because right now, there are two choices. Either my flatmate, the detective, throws you out or he--but he won’t.  
I try to stand, and his hand reaches to my knee and stops any movement. I freeze.  
“Don’t. I wish I had--” and Sherlock’s hand drifts back, running it through his hair. “This letter, these pictures. We have alternatives. Take them to Scotland Yard--,”  
Straightening up, sounding like a squeaky unoiled wheel, “oh no, we can’t do that. We’ll be a joke. No, I would be. No, no.”  
“I agree. Not the best decision. Another would be to agree to his payment.”  
“How do you know it’s a man?” still trying to gain composure.  
“Handwriting. The name is at the bottom. Moriarty.”  
I squish out a laugh. So obvious, but in my condition, I haven’t noticed anything but the man sitting too close.  
“You know as well as I do that he probably has copies. And he’d be extorting money from us for the rest of our lives.”  
Yes, criminals tend to do that,” the first sign of lightness, a chuckle.  
Taking a deep breath, squaring my shoulders, soldier style, I say what I should have said years ago.  
Years ago, that first day we met.  
“Sherlock Holmes, I worship you.”  
“I know John. It’s not hard to when living with a genius.”  
Grumbling. I know I’m going to kill him. He’s not making this easy.  
Another breath, another adjustment of my body, shifting ever closer.  
“Those pictures,-- my fantasy. How I wished it would be if we were more than flatmates. I, no, don’t interrupt -- fancied you years ago but scared shitless to admit it. You can toss me out right now,” giving it my all.  
“I want to hold you in my arms, to tangle my fingers in your hair, to--shit Sherlock. I love you.”  
“I have also struggled with my emotions concerning you. I do love you.”  
His breath is on my face, so close. “Our other option--” his tongue tracing my lips, “confirm it as true.” 


End file.
